


Holiday

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [24]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>LBTS 'verse.  </em>Set following <em>Aerials </em>in the same series.  The not so distant future.  One career cop, one mobster's son.  A trip to England may prove too much for Arthur and Lancelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday

Stumbling bleary eyed off the plane, Lancelot looked ‘round the large airport terminal, which was full of people meandering and rushing back and forth with seemingly no destination. He shook his head, blinking rapidly to try and wake up as he and his companion shuffled toward the customs gate.

 Arthur bounced like an excited puppy as they were summarily checked, stamped, and waved on their way.

  
Lance tripped over a small child as they were exiting the passport area, cursed, and fell onto Arthur momentarily. The older man caught his arm and steadied him.

  
“Relax, Lance,” Arthur said brightly, winking at Lance teasingly. “Plenty of time for that later. Now, we have a city to see.”

  
“Good christ, Arthur,” Lancelot muttered, “it’s like you’ve never traveled before.” He followed the other man to the black car that was waiting for them; it did help to have some perks, even if Arthur thought Lance had pulled strings through the department versus his family. Arthur would never know the truth of that little lie.

  
“Not overseas. You know that,” Arthur answered, pouting just a bit. He seated himself in the back of the car as Lancelot slid in and pulled on sunglasses to protect his overworked eyes from the early morning London sun. Gods, who had had the smart idea to make the nine hour flight arrive at 7 am? No one he’d want to be associated with, that was for sure.

  
Arthur gave the name of their hotel to the driver, and they were whisked off into traffic, Lance already falling asleep on Arthur’s shoulder as the other man looked out the tinted window and went on eagerly about all the things he wanted to do.

  
*

  
The room was as lovely as the rest of the hotel – modern conveniences, but old world charm. Lancelot smirked as he leant against the door and watched Arthur. The older man had quickly stowed his clothing and toiletries where they were “supposed” to go, putting Lance’s up too when the other man had said he would do it later.

  
The sun had risen, the weather was perfect, and Arthur stood at the open window that looked down onto the central garden. It was filled with traditional English plants and flowers, the main landscaping piece being a full circle of fragrant red rose bushes.

  
Lance felt his cheeks crinkle as he smiled at Arthur’s back; the other man was clearly in hog heaven, whatever that meant. Lancelot was afraid Arthur might actually start crying from sheer happiness; seeing the expression on the older man’s face, Lancelot would never regret the money or time spent on this trip.

  
He crossed the room and stood behind Arthur, whose hands had thrown up the window and now rested on the screenless frame. Lance moved slightly and snuggled up to Arthur’s back, his arms snaking ‘round the other man’s broad chest. He rested his chin on Arthur’s shoulder and joined him in looking out of the window onto the idyllic garden.

  
Arthur smiled and raised one hand to entwine with Lancelot’s. He spoke softly, but with great joy.

  
“Never seen anything like this.”

  
Lance laughed quietly. “I have – too many times to count. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house in Napa.”

  
Arthur produced a snort that shook his body. “Unlikely. No grape vines, for one thing. And it’s too cold here. Besides, the – ”

  
Lancelot bit Arthur’s shoulder sharply through his shirt and got the other man to stop rambling, albeit with an “ow!” that Lance was sure he would pay for later.

  
“I didn’t say it looked like it, Arthur. Just reminds me, is all.” He pressed apologetic lips to the bitten spot and breathed warm air against Arthur’s neck. “Never had sex in an English hotel room before. Not during the day, at any rate, well, unless you count that one time…”

  
Arthur rolled his eyes and shook his head, sending his free elbow into Lancelot’s gut, earing a nice ooof that made him smile wickedly. “No. Not right now. We have two whole weeks to have sex in an English hotel room during the day. Today is for supporting the tourist industry.”

  
Lancelot groaned and tried to make his case for the umpteenth time. He was sure Arthur would ignore him again. “Arthur – like you said, we have two whole weeks. We don’t have to rush out and see everything in one morning. Besides, the places I want to show you haven’t even opened up yet. It’s only eight am, for the love of God."

  
Another laugh. “And yet you want to rush into fucking already? It’s only eight am, for the love of god,” Arthur repeated, laughing again. He moved so Lance was wrapped in the crook of one of his arms, and he kissed the other man’s temple.

  
“Can’t say I didn’t try,” the younger man breathed, turning to sniff at Arthur’s scent where his neck joined with his jaw. He brushed his lips against Arthur’s briefly, then pulled away reluctantly. “Very well, tourism Tom,” he mock grumped, “let me shower, and we’ll go to it.”

  
A huge grin plastered itself over Arthur’s face and he nodded emphatically. “I love you,” he called, then turned back to his gazing at the flowers.

  
Lancelot sighed dramatically, hard pressed to recall when he’d last seen Arthur like this. It made his chest ache from the emotion he felt toward the other man. Then he remembered just how he’d gotten the money and connections to bring them here, and he crashed back down to reality.

  
Shutting the bathroom door behind him, he turned on the hot water, and tried to forget everything but Arthur’s happiness. That was what was important.

  
*

  
Despite seeing each other a good bit at the office and on the weekends at Arthur’s loft, Arthur felt like he and Lancelot hadn’t had a proper “getaway” in ages. After the younger man had switched to Cragen’s unit, Arthur didn’t have nearly as much contact with Lancelot at work as he had when Lance was on his team. Naturally, of course, but it still felt strange to not see his face among Arthur’s officers when he called meetings in the mornings.

  
Arthur discovered that another thing to be thankful for was the absence of anyone they knew – he could avoid questions and the rumors that had been floating around the department. He had chanced to ask the younger man about them once a few months ago, and had decided that after the reaction it had garnered he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  
Not unless the stories kept coming up…

  
Shaking his head, he changed out his wrinkled traveling clothing and put on jeans and a grey cable knit sweater over a tee shirt. Despite it being August, he knew that the weather in the UK could change at a moments notice. Never let it be said that Arthur Castus was someone that didn’t do his research, in spite of the fact that he had allowed Lancelot to do the booking for this trip. God knew the younger man had more patience for the electronic world than Arthur did. Sometimes he wanted to chuck his laptop out the window of his office and go back to writing notes on plain paper.

  
He brushed his teeth and washed up at the vanity sink; thank goodness they had gotten a room with two of those. He snorted in laughter at the thought of trying to share a bathroom with Lance. He could hear the other man now, humming as he did whatever it was with product that made his hair look the way it did.

  
Arthur thought the younger man looked fine in any way, shape or form, but would rather try to cross Melrose blindfolded than tell Lancelot that.

  
Sliding into his boots, he moved back to the window as he waited for Lance, who was out of the bathroom a few seconds later.

  
“Okay, Arthur,” Lancelot said, still acting put upon, “let’s go play foreigner.”

  
Arthur stood and tucked some money and his ID into his shirt front pocket underneath the sweater. “We are foreigners, you great oaf,” he smiled as he followed Lance out the door and made sure it was locked.

  
“Yes, well,” Lance answered, “you might be, Roman, but according to my family geneology, not only are we from Russia, but we’re also from around Iran and somewhere here on the Island.”

  
Arthur cocked his head at Lancelot’s statement as they walked to the door leading to the street. “Then where in the world did you get Benoit from?”

  
“Shut up,” came the sing-song answer, so Arthur obliged even as his lips were tugged into a smile.

  
*

  
Arthur’s feet throbbed and his hand ached from carrying various packages, but his mood more than made up for the small pains. The sun had just set, and he and Lancelot were trying to find someplace to eat before heading back to their rooms.

  
The Tower had been his favorite for sure. Lance had scowled at Arthur’s insistance they take the afternoon to see it; ever the history buff, Arthur had read many many things about it and it’s bloody past. Besides, he had argued, Lance could sit in the courtyard if he didn’t want to walk around with Arthur.

  
“It’s not a place you can just breeze in and out of, Lance,” Arthur had said. Lance had countered by reminding Arthur he had already seen the Tower. That was when Arthur had suggested that Lance bide his time watching the huge ravens in the centralized courtyard – he also reminded Lance to pay attention to the way the ravens liked shiny things – like the buttons on Lance’s new Burberry coat.

  
The younger man had been docile after that, oohing and ahhing in the appropriate places (if slightly sarcastically) when Arthur pointed out bits of history as they toured the forbidding place.

  
Arthur had stopped when they had come to the place where traitors to the crown had been beheaded. He stared at the block site with morbid fascination, imagining the blood and the crowd and the wrongness of it all. No real trial, no hope. It horrified him beyond almost anything he’d ever seen; it was the opposite of everything he believed in and stood for.

  
“So many lives wasted,” he murmured; Lancelot had come up next to him, and with a gentle hand to the small of Arthur’s back had moved him on.

  
The armory had been Lance’s favorite. He ran back and forth between the mock up suits of armor and the armor created for horses to wear. Arthur had had to practically tear him away from the weapons exhibit. “Look at this,” he had exclaimed, “look at how sharp the gladius was. And how heavy! I hadn’t realized just how much these things weighed.” He sighed with desire, his breath almost fogging up the glass display. Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled. The only way he had been able to get Lancelot to leave the area was to promise him they’d see a man he knew in Los Angeles about making replica swords.

  
“I want two,” Lance had bounced about, tails from his new pea coat flying, “it’s always a benefit to be able to defend yourself with either hand. My cross draw could use more practice.”

  
Arthur had laughed. “Lance, I’d say fighting with two guns versus two swords requires slightly different skills.”

  
“You have your obsessions, Castus. Let me have mine,” the younger man had grinned, then had run off to the gift shop, crowing something about getting a souvenir blade for Gwen. “She of the sharp tongue,” he had explained to Arthur’s confused look.

  
After a full morning of shopping and a full afternoon of sightseeing, Arthur was ready to go to sleep on his feet. The jet lag was finally catching up with him.

  
“How about curry? I’ve been told the Brits know their Indian food,” he sighed as Lancelot perused another menu on the corner of two very busy streets. Arthur had almost been hit by cars twice – he had to keep reminding himself to look right first, then left.

  
Lance made an agreeable sound, looking up. “Actually, that sounds great. And conveniently enough, lets go in here,” he added, pointing to the small restaurant they had been stopped in front of.

  
Thank God.

  
Arthur agreed readily, and they went in, the bell on the door tinkling pleasantly, the owner greeting them. They had a seat and beer quickly.

  
*

  
Walking back to their tube station much later – Arthur swore he’d never eat anything ever again – they passed several nightclubs and bars.

  
“Do you want a drink?” Lance asked him, eyebrow raised as he looked at one of the clubs. Arthur groaned and laughed.

  
“No. I’m fit to pop as it is. Besides, I think we can hang out with enough goth kids at your club.”

  
The one they were currently passing was a sinister affair aptly named The Black Rose. Lancelot made a pshhhawing noise and shook his head at the punked out kids waiting to get in.

  
“Was I ever that young?” he said, a slightly wistful tone to his voice. Arthur grabbed him by the sleeve and drug him along to where the steps led down into the Underground.

  
“No,” he said, “you just act like it.”

  
He laughed and ran down the steps as an affronted Lance chased him, yelling something along the lines of _look who’s talking, you wrinkled bastard!_

  
*

  
The damn jet leg had indeed set in – and had woken Arthur up at about 3 am London time. He sat in the small window seat, looking down at the garden (he had already begun to call it his) and enjoying the waft of the night air on his bare torso.

  
This type of trip had been exactly what he, and what he and Lancelot, had needed. They knew no one here, had no pressures from local family or friends, and could just be themselves generally without worrying about the press hounding Lance or Arthur’s bosses calling at odd hours.

  
He smiled to himself and folded his pajama clad knees up, wrapping his arms around them. He turned his head at a noise from the bed, and smiled more broadly as he caught sight of Lance sitting halfway up, his elbow crooked to support him, a truly annoyed and unbelieving expression on the younger man’s face.

  
“Get. Back over here so I can sleep,” Lance growled, one hand rubbing at his eyes. Arthur had to surpress a laugh at that; the action made Lance look about twelve years old.

  
He stood and closed the window most of the way, leaving it cracked so he could still smell the fragrant blooms and feel the breeze, and made his way on quiet feet back to the large bed.

  
“How can I say no to that adorably cranky face?” he teased, sliding back under the sheets as Lance re-wrapped himself around Arthur’s broader body.

  
“Ow!”

  
“Don’t call me adorable,” came the sleepy voice. Arthur rubbed at his sore arm, which was sure to have a nice bruise on it from Lancelot’s hard pinch. He pouted as he closed his eyes and tried to settle down.

  
“Didn’t have to pinch so hard,” he grumped. Lance merely smiled with his eyes still closed and snuggled closer.

  
“Ow! Damn it, okay!”

  
A small laugh rumbled out of Lancelot’s chest as he opened his lids to see Arthur frowning at him, trying to rub his sore arm and ass at the same time.

  
“That’s just a taste of what you’ll get if you don’t shush,” Lancelot batted his lashes at Arthur prettily. “My head is throbbing from lack of sleep. Shut it.”  
He got comfortable again – which to Lancelot meant being halfway splayed across Arthur’s chest – and Arthur rolled his eyes as he too tried to rest.

  
“You’re the one who was so interested in getting me into bed. And now you’re sleepy?”

  
“Sex later. Sleep now.”

  
Arthur waited a few moments, then pulled a face when he heard the soft snores begin. “I’ll hold you to that,” he whispered, unable to stay mad for long.  He sunk his hand into Lancelot’s hair, winding some of the strands around his fingers in an old comfort gesture, and tried to think of pleasant things – like sleep, and English gardens, and vacation.

*

"OhmygodArthur."

  
Lancelot came bounding up to Arthur, who was sitting in the courtyard of a café across the street from Westminster Abbey, which he had just finished touring.  
  
His head was swimming with the amount of things he had seen; the place was ancient, full of history, and actually somewhat spooky. It felt powerful. Arthur didn’t like to admit it, but he did believe in certain things like that – despite the fact that one couldn’t touch, or feel, or taste, or see them. Lancelot had had the nerve to laugh at him when he mentioned it after seeing the graves of Henry V and Charles Dickens (Arthur’s breath had caught at this latter – the man was and had been one of his favorites since childhood).  
  
“How can you deny it? Can’t you feel how old this place is? The 11th century, Lance! It’s lasted through two world wars and innumerable monarchs. It’s amazing.”  
  
Lancelot had merely rolled his eyes, and told Arthur he’d meet him at tea time.  
  
Now, out of breath and nicely flushed, the younger man flung himself into the seat opposite Arthur, who put down his History of Westminster book and eyed Lance with one brow cocked.  
  
“OhmygodArthur what?” he repeated hesitantly. Most of the time when Lancelot was this excited things boded badly for Arthur. He waited for the other man to calm down, passing him some tea and watching as Lance took a few sips and regained his normal breathing pattern.  
  
“I’ve just found us something to do this weekend,” Lance said in a rush, smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He waved a multicolored pamphlet in Arthur’s face, then snatched the thing back as Arthur was reaching for it.  
  
“I’m afraid to ask,” the older man said dryly, returning his hands to his book. “What is it, and how embarassed will I be by Monday?”  
  
Lance laughed brightly, and Arthur knew he was going to be sorry. Resisting the urge to groan, he leant over so he could force the other man into looking at him. “Lancelot. What are you going to get us into?”  
  
That got his attention. “Don’t call me that, you ass. Carnival,” he replied, narrowing his eyes only slightly.  
  
“Carnival? What carnival?”  
  
“Not a carnival, Arthur, Carnival. Capital C. Have you heard of Notting Hill before?”  
  
Arthur made a face. “Do you mean that really terrible film with Hugh Grant?”  
  
Lance shook his head and kicked Arthur’s ankle under the table. After apologizing, he drank some more tea and met Arthur’s gaze again, his brown eyes almost twinkling.  
  
This time, Arthur did groan aloud. “Okay. What’s a carnival – excuse me, Carnival, got to do with a really bad film?”  
  
When Lancelot kicked him again the younger man refused to apologize. “Arthur, you idiot,” he shook his head, then spoke slowly as if having to explain some basic concept to a child. “Not the movie. The neighborhood. They have a carnival this weekend. It’s been around since the ‘60’s, and it’s all island related.”  
  
“Island?”  
  
“Yes, oh moronic one. Islands – as in Trinidad, Jamaica, etc. Sheesh. If you’d get your head out of your police manuals once in a while you’d know a few pertinent things.”  
  
That brought a laugh barking from Arthur’s throat. “Pot, meet kettle,” he said, smirking still. Lance glared at him for a moment, then his excitement got the better of him.  
  
“Seriously. It sounds great. Lots of live music, food, craziness, drink, things to buy. It sounds like Mardi Gras, sort of.”  
  
“I don’t have to wear any kind of costume, do I?” Arthur asked, brain suddenly horrified by images of himself and Lancelot dressed as Venician clowns. He shuddered to even think it.  
  
“No,” Lance answered, laughing himself. “Although, I would give my right arm to see you in one.” He leant over so only Arthur could hear him. “Come to think of it, I may have something back home – ow! Stop that!”  
  
Arthur removed his hand from Lance’s bicep, which he saw with satisfaction was slightly red. “No way in hell, my poor, deluded friend. So when is this carnival, and what should we bring?”  
  
*  
  
“OhmygodLance.”  
  
Crowds like Arthur had never seen. Well, maybe he had – at riots. He gawped at the passersby, children, families, young kids, drunk men, half dressed women, and people clothed in every array of costume one could imagine.  
  
Lancelot turned and grinned at him. “What did I tell you?”  
  
“Suddenly I feel very overdressed.”  
  
Arthur looked down at his jeans and linen button down, then back up at Lance, who was still grinning like a crazed thing at him. The younger man knocked his hip against Arthur’s, planted a large kiss on Arthur’s shocked mouth, then bounced away. Arthur vaguely heard him say something about  _food then beer, follow me._  
  
Resigning himself to the fact that they were there for the weekend, Arthur followed his exuberant partner into the meley.  
  
*  
  
 _Ring.  
  
Ring ring.  
  
Ring ring ring._  
  
“mmmfuckwha?”  
  
Fumbling for his cell, Arthur managed to knock over the lamp and the alarm clock that had previously rested on their London hotel bedside table.  
  
“’lo?”  
  
“Arthur? Stop whatever you’re doing, darling, and get this morning’s edition of the Sun. Right now.”  
  
“Uh? Gwen?”  
  
Arthur rolled over onto his back, shoving Lancelot out of the way, and sat up. The younger man mumbled an annoyed  _piss off_  and flung his leg back over Arthur’s.  
  
Arthur blinked rapidly and rubbed at his stubbled face. What the hell time was it?  
  
“Arthur. CASTUS. Are you drunk??”  
  
 _Not anymore._  
  
“No. Just…ugh, Gwen, do you know what time it is?”  
  
“Yes, sweetie. It’s early,” she sang cheerily into the phone, and Arthur couldn’t repress the moan that the hideous noise elicited. “Gwen, please,” he begged, “it’s still dark out. Is something wrong?”  
  
“Go get the Sun and take a look at page three. I had to call and thank you boys for the laugh. Love you! I’ll see you when you come home. Byeeee!”  
  
She rang off. Arthur stared blearily and confusedly at his phone, then shut the cover. Considering that was the first time he’d spoken to her in a while…. He allowed his aching, dehydrated, exhausted body to fall back onto the bed, where he promptly wrapped himself around Lance and passed out.  
  
*  
  
Lance woke several hours later, bed empty and room quiet. The doors to the bedroom area were shut, and he could see that the sun was low in the sky. Rolling slowly to a sitting position, he scrubbed a hand over his face, and smacked his lips which forced him to make a face; morning breath (or evening breath) needed to be taken care of.  
  
Finished with the bathroom, mouth feeling much better, he tugged on one of Arthur’s buttondowns over his boxers and opened the doors to the main part of their hotel suite.  
  
The television was on low, and the room smelled of coffee and croissants, which made Lancelot’s mouth water. He made his way to the table, fixed some coffee, and carried it and some fattening bread product to the couch.  
  
“Arthur?” he called when it appeared the room was empty. No answer. “Huh,” he shrugged, thinking the other man had perhaps gone out to look into getting their room bill settled or to get some last minute thing.  
  
Their flight left the next day, and Lance was frankly ready to go home. The week had been a wonderful distraction for them, but Lance wasn’t sure how much longer he could be away from his renewed relationship with his family and still hide it from Arthur.  
  
“Fuck,” he sighed, wondering when it was going to go down the tubes. It invariably always did. Considering he never said no when they asked for anything.  
  
Not anymore, at any rate.  
  
Suddenly not hungry, he put his croissant down and picked up the paper that sat on the coffee table in front of him.  
  
“Yellow trash,” he sneered at The Sun; flipping through it quickly, he was about to throw the thing out after reading another story about aging footballer David Beckham (couldn’t these athletes just retire gracefully?) when he noticed something, and had to do a double take.  
  
“Oh….holy shit,” he hissed, drawing out the sibilance in the word. “Shit, shit, shit.”  
  
Flipping open his cell, he dialed his sister, and tossed the paper to the floor.  
  
*  
  
Arthur decided after two hours of walking he’d better return to the hotel before Lancelot sent the police after him.  
  
Fitting his key into the electronic keypad, he heard Lance’s voice, then a loud crash. Rushing into the bedroom, he found the younger man wearing one of his shirts and panting, face drawn in anger, a broken vase dripping water down the hotel wall.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
Approaching Lance slowly, he touched him gently on the shoulder. Lance whirled and snarled, then forcibly calmed. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”  
  
He crossed to the bed and sat on it, body stiff and rage evident in the way he held himself.  
  
Arthur sighed and grabbed a chair from the small desk in the room, sitting on it directly across from Lance.  
  
“Guess you saw the paper.”  
  
It wasn’t a question.  
  
“Goddamn right I did. Since when did small time American ‘celebrities’ mean news in the UK?”  
  
Arthur laughed but sobered at Lancelot’s thunderous expression. “Are you joking? Lance, since forever. Besides, you were making kind of a spectacle of your- ”  
  
“Don’t you dare, Arthur. You were in the picture, too.”  
  
Lance got up, storming to the window. He stared at the garden Arthur enjoyed so much, wanting nothing more than to smash each of the cheerful roses with his fingers. Damn the fucking thorns.  
  
Damn the stupid Carnival, and damn his propensity for out of control behavior when intoxicated.  
  
The weekend in Notting Hill had been amazing, and fun, and as out of control an experience as anything they’d ever done, but that was just the trouble.  
  
“Can’t even let loose in another country,” Lance muttered heatedly against the glass of the window. “Fucking press. The LAPD is going to love this.”  
  
Arthur’s hand was on his shoulder again, and despite his annoyance, he didn’t shake it off. He sighed, his breath fogging the glass. “Stupid of me.”  
  
Arthur laughed softly, then moved so he stood behind the younger man. His arms slid around Lancelot’s waist, and he pressed his nose into Lance’s neck. “It’s alright,” he said quietly, the warmth from his words oddly cooling Lance’s anger.  
  
The younger man knocked his forehead against the glass a few times, groaning and shutting his eyes. “Arthur – I was half naked, covered in beads and holding a pint up for the world to see. I’m not sure how ‘alright’ it will be.  _Ex-mobster Parties It Up in Notting Hill – Is he tired of his American Lover?_ ”  
  
Arthur laughed again. He couldn’t help it. It was funny in a red faced, humiliating, life altering way. Thank God he hadn’t been as drunk. Then.  
  
“At least they don’t know who you’re seeing,” he said into Lance’s ear. “They’d really have a field day with you then.”  
  
Lance nodded. “I think it’s Chelsea Caldwell this month. Poor woman. Teaches her to be friends with Gwen.” He smiled at last, and raised his head, turning so he faced Arthur. He wound his arms around the older man’s neck. “Feeling better?”  
  
Arthur tightened his hold on Lance. “Somewhat. My head still feels like it's been split by an axe.”  
  
“Split by an axe? Arthur, where do you get these wierd sayings? You’ve been watching old movies again,” Lance accused, the fingers of one hand threading themselves in Arthur’s longish hair. The other man hadn’t had a haircut in a while, and Lance found that he liked it.  _More for me to grip._  
  
His grin became wolfish, and he began to walk forward, which forced Arthur to either step backward or fall over.  
  
“No,” Arthur answered, too quickly. Lance just rolled his eyes. Arthur’s knees hit the bed, and he sat, Lancelot moving to sit astride him. “I haven’t, honestly.”  
  
“Arthur,” Lance said, drawing the man’s name out and making it breathy so all the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood up, “you never could lie to me.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur admitted, a small gasp elicited from him as Lancelot’s hands worked on his shirt buttons, his long fingers managing to find skin, “maybe just one.”  
  
“Mmm hmm,” the younger man answered, his mouth busy with Arthur’s neck, “you sure about that?”  
  
“Okayyyyy, maybe more than tha-” the word was cut off in midsyllable as Lance bit down on the soft flesh of Arthur’s throat.  
  
He fell over pliantly as Lancelot pushed on him, the two men smacking together with a comical sound that made them both laugh.  
  
Arthur cocked an eyebrow at Lancelot, who was hurriedly getting Arthur’s borrowed buttondown off. He winced at the sound of a button pinging off the wall, but smiled when Lance grinned sheepishly at him.  
  
“Get you another,” the younger man said, having already bent back over Arthur, his lips decorating Arthur’s chest and arms with marks and small bites. Arthur’s back arched helplessly; even in his semi hungover state, he couldn’t deny Lance anything.  
  
Arthur’s leg wound itself lazily around Lance’s calf and his arms followed suit around his waist. “Sex now?”  
  
“Mmm hmmm,” Lance answered, mouth still occupied. “Sex now.”  
  
Arthur was too tired and too turned on to do anything but smile, gasp, moan out Lancelot’s name, and try not to fall off the bed as he allowed the other man to do as he wished. He had one last coherent image before his body was engulfed in the tight, familiar heat of Lancelot’s – that of the garden downstairs, the bright, blood red roses, and the large, prickly thorns that protected them.  
  
Such soft, seemingly innocent beauty – hiding sharp, dangerous weapons that cut and hurt.  
  
Lance slept afterward, snoring happily in Arthur’s arms. Arthur lay awake, watching his friend’s face, smooth and young in the moonlight. He drew a soft line down the center of Lance’s forehead, the small age creases that were beginning to show transparent as the younger man slept.  
  
“I love you,” Arthur murmured, then shut his eyes, hands and body wound tightly around Lancelot.  
Despite his efforts, he stayed awake til dawn, mind unable to shut down, worries of returning home replaying themselves out over and over on the backs of his eyelids.  
  
*  
  
“You’re sure it’s taken care of?”  
  
Lance stood outside the doors of LAX’s baggage claim area, waiting for their car as Arthur gathered up the last of the luggage. His dark glasses reflected the dirty, pollution filled sky. “Alright. Thanks, Gwen. I appreciate it. And I’ll see you on Thursday – of course I brought you something. Just – don’t tell Arthur about – yes, I realize you’re not that stupid,” he rolled his eyes at the phone.  
  
Their car rolled to a stop in front of him as he heard Arthur approaching from behind. “I’ll call you later.” He snapped the cell shut.  
  
“Who was that?” Arthur asked as they loaded the luggage into the trunk while the driver held the door for them.  
  
“Work. Meeting on Thursday,” Lance answered smoothly. He smiled at the other man as his gut twisted and did a dance inside his skin. If he kept lying to Arthur like this, he was going to end up in the hospital with an ulcer.  
  
He’d explain it to him. Lance was sure he could figure out a way to tell Arthur he’d reconnected with his family without the other man going ballistic. Just – not yet. He hadn’t quite caught Arthur on a good enough day yet. And why ruin their vacation? It had had enough quirks as it was. He shook his head for the umpteenth time at the thought of the picture The Sun had run. He was never drinking again. Well, maybe not in public, at any rate.  
  
Thank God Guinevere had managed to quash most of the stories in the Los Angeles press about the incident in Notting Hill – one good thing about being a member of an important family.  
  
So what if the price was a little extortion or scare tactics?  
  
Lancelot blinked rapidly behind his glasses and met Arthur’s eyes as the other man squeezed his hand gently. “Alright?”  
  
“Just fine, love,” he answered as their car pulled out into traffic. “Home sweet home,” he murmured, his eyes drifting from Arthur’s kind and innocent face to the smog filled sky, which didn’t hurt quite so much to look at.


End file.
